


Mrs. Hudson’s Soothing Brownies

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Altered Mental States, Altered States, Herbal Soothers, Innuendo, John Makes a Move, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, Possibly Unrequited Love, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Being a Good Friend, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Touchy-Feely, Unrequited Crush, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, pot brownies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 18:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5637952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson rounds on Sherlock. Her fists are on her hips again. John thinks he sees Sherlock duck his head in a small cringe, though he continues to refuse to look up at her. “You should be ashamed of yourself. It’s not decent.”</p><p>John leans forward to peer around Mrs. Hudson at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, what’s going on?”</p><p>Mrs. Hudson glares at Sherlock a moment longer, then turns to John. She speaks gently, “Those were my… <i>special</i> brownies, dear… with a bit of my <b><i>herbal soothers</i> </b>in them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mrs. Hudson’s Soothing Brownies

**Author's Note:**

> _JLAC Prompt: Accidental Pot Brownies_   
>  _WARNING: Contains altered state due to recreational (or misued medicinal?) drugs._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> But, I need to point out, _‘great-not-yet-good’_ guy Sherlock may set John up to take the drug “for science” but he does NOT take advantage… because honestly that wouldn’t be right no matter who we are talking about, am I right?

“Sherlock Holmes, have you been in my kitchen?” Mrs. Hudson’s usual motherly disapproval is mixed with an edge of panic. She stops in the doorway of the sitting room, hands on hips and frowning at Sherlock.

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock responds flatly, not looking up from his seat on the couch. He is gazing down at the sitting room table where he’s spread out various clippings from a file. “I barely set foot in _our kitchen_ , save the odd experiments, why would I journey into _yours_?”

“There’s -There’s _something_ gone missing,” Mrs. Hudson says wringing her hands and looking worried. 

“Any way we can help,” John inquires good-naturedly. Mrs. Hudson’s eyes fall on John, sitting in his usual chair by the fireplace. He smiles at her, and takes another bite of a brownie in his hand.

“John,” Mrs. Hudson gasps. She rushes over to him, her fingers resting on the plate of brownies on the table beside his chair. “Are these…”

John’s eyes follow hers to the table. “Oh, _these_ were here when I got up this morning. Someone must have dropped them off… Molly maybe? Quite good. Would you like one?” John smiles up at her.

Mrs. Hudson looks down at John with concern. “Oh, John. How many have you had, dear?” John tilts his head, giving her a quizzical look but still smiling.

“Um… this is my second. Only just sat down.” He pops the last bite in his mouth. “But you’re welcome to-”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Mrs. Hudson rounds on Sherlock. Her fists are on her hips again. John thinks he sees Sherlock duck his head in a small cringe, though he continues to refuse to look up at her. “You should be ashamed of yourself. It’s not decent.”

John leans forward to peer around Mrs. Hudson at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, what’s going on?”

Mrs. Hudson glares at Sherlock a moment longer, then turns to John. She speaks gently, “Those were my… _special_ brownies, dear… with a bit of my _herbal soothers_ in them.” 

John’s eyes are wide. He looks at the plate, then at Mrs. Hudson, then at Sherlock and back to the plate, horror dawning on his face. 

“I’m sure you’ll be quite alright, dear,” Mrs. Hudson says placing a hand on his arm and smiling reassuringly. “You should just plan on staying in the flat today.”

She takes her plate, shakes her head at Sherlock again and makes a hasty retreat. 

John glares at Sherlock. Sherlock meets his stare with mild interest.

“Twenty to forty minutes before it takes effect, John.” Sherlock’s voice is apathetic.

“You did this on purpose,” John fumes.

“I need to observe the effects-”

“I swear to God Sherlock… we discussed _this_! We _agreed_ ,” John’s voice raises to a shout.

“I neither prepared the chemically enhanced food nor pressed you to consume it.”

“No, you just set a trap for me… how can you _not_ see how wrong this is?” John sighs shaking his head.

“15 to 35 minutes, John.”

“I had plans today,” John groans. Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. “A date with Jeanette,” John laments. He drags a hand across his face.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, “Yes, well best text her now.”

John sighs and pulls out his phone. He types and sends a message hastily and then looks up at Sherlock who is continuing to leaf through the clippings on the table. He glares at the detective, considering if he should teach him a lesson by keeping him from observing the ‘results’ of his ‘experiment’. 

“I should go up to my room and just stay there, rather than give you the satisfaction-”

“No,” Sherlock interjects passionately. It is the first showing of emotion John has seen out of him today. Sherlock looks startled at his own outburst. His eyes flit around as if looking for something to support his initial protest. “It is unknown how the dosage of THC you have consumed will react with your metabolism. You should be monitored for any potential negative side effects,” Sherlock says in a serious tone. 

John sighs and ultimately decides, having never consumed cannabis, he’d rather not be alone. Sherlock may be crazy enough to drug him for the sake of scientific curiosity, but John is fairly certain he would help him if things went badly.

“Do I want to know what I am in for?” John rises and walks to the stove to put tea on.

“Nothing unpleasant,” Sherlock says with a faint smile and a wave of his hand. “But I should like if you tell me exactly what you experience in as much detail as you are able.”

John leans against the counter, shaking his head. “How long will it last?” 

“Four to six hours.” Sherlock narrows his eyes, as if recalling something. “Though, in the sense of relativity, it may feel much longer for you… We will have to determine that.”

Ten minutes later John is sitting in his chair reaching for his cup of tea when the initial effect is felt; abrupt and powerful. It is as if the whole room suddenly shifts, taking on a new life, revealing a dimension of itself that was previously unseen. Everything pulsates with its own unique vibration creating a symphony of micro interactions bouncing off one another and caressing at John’s skin.

“Oh, god, Sherlock,” John whispers. His own voice seems so loud to his overly sensitive ears. It’s as if his body has been wrapped in a heavy blanket since birth and now, having shed it, he can hardly process the immensity of the cacophony of sensations his body is endeavoring to drink in as if it is dieing of thirst. 

He feels euphoric, like at long last his connection to the universe has been reestablished. He hadn’t realized how empty and alone he was without it, but now that it has returned he wants to shout with the pleasure that fills every molecule of his being. 

He looks down and sees Sherlock is crouching beside him. He feels the pull of the other man as if he has his own gravitational field.

“Can you feel that,” John whispers. “God, I feel everything, Sherlock.” He stares down at his friend in fascination, seeing him for the first time too. 

_God, he’s gorgeous._

Realization dawns on John. “Is this what it is like for you all the time, Sherlock?” 

Sherlock smiles with his perfect lips. 

Several ideas seem to occupy John’s mind at the same moment. Thoughts about lips and breath, kissing and heat, Mona Lisa, and perfect Greek statues with porcelain lips that fall short of the curves and shapes of Sherlock’s.

Sherlock is studying him with his deductive stare. He leans forward and studies the detective in return. He feels for once he might be able to comprehend this rare creature before him. Time seems to unfold more slowly now, allowing him more detailed observations. If he stares long enough he can learn a sufficient amount to tame this creature.

_’No, never tame it. It’s far too beautiful for that.’_

“What are you feeling, John?” John feels the need to close his eyes as Sherlock’s voice rumbles through him. The deep, resonating tone is almost unbearably pleasurable. He waits with his eyes closed, appreciating the lingering sensations washing over him.

“John?” John shutters. The sound of his name on Sherlock’s tongue feels like it lifts him out of his seat to float somewhere just above the two of them.

_’How have I failed to notice the way Sherlock holds my name so carefully in his mouth, like even that, such a common name in its own right, is so precious because it belongs to me, John Watson.’_

“Do it again,” John hears his own voice whisper. His head is tipped back. He sits on the edge of his seat; board straight, breathing rapidly, waiting for the wave of sensation to strike again.

“John.” The voice is hesitant this time. It tickles at the back of John’s mind and in the darkness of John’s closed eyes he is tumbling through moments, memories of emotional high, with Sherlock. Falling into his own body and replaying - reliving forward in slow motion:  


>   
>  _—’The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker street.’ Wink from doorway of Bart’s lab._   
>  _— Running through streets, over rooftops, breathless. ‘Come on, John.’_   
>  _—Breathless, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and asking about badge. ‘What?’ ‘Nothing. Welcome to London’_   
>  _—Laughter in hallway of 221 Baker Street. ‘Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Watson will take the room upstairs.’ Doorbell rings, Angelo hands him his cane. Sherlock smiles._   
>  _—-Sherlock’s eyes sliding to him across the parking lot. Knowing him. Seeing him. ‘We can’t giggle at a crime scene.’_   
>  _—- ‘Dinner?’ ‘Starving.’ Walking away shoulder to shoulder._   
> 

John opens his eyes and is pleased to see Sherlock is still crouched in front of him. He leans forward to look into his eyes.

_‘A whole universe in those eyes. Those beautiful, terrible, all-seeing, powerful, hungry, cold, human-as-hell eyes._

“There’s a way you look at me sometimes,” John whispers. His voice still seems too loud. “It’s as if you’re pulling me out through my own eyeballs… and I am naked _and_ powerful… broken _and_ perfect and _everything_ all at once…” John pauses and loses track of his thought. He can’t remember what he’s just said or why it seemed important. 

“Is that the way you feel _now,_ ” Sherlock inquires, his hushed tone matching John’s. He feels the detective's words pulsing through him. He wants to answer but since his last thought escaped before it could take anchor in his memory, he can’t be sure how to respond. 

He stares at Sherlock’s face feeling his last thought must be found there. If he can only grab ahold of the start of it he can chase it back to where he left it. He is aware he is smiling in such a ridiculous exaggerated way, but staring at Sherlock feels like tumbling off a cliff into a cool clear pool of water on a hot summer day.

“I feel more _me_ with you,” John murmurs with a laugh.

_‘Laughing feels amazing… I want so bad for us to laugh together… and there are other things… good things… amazing things… they could be beautiful…they would be… ’_

John suddenly feels outside himself. He feels as if he is observing everything happening with an objective eye. He is both doing and watching himself do it. 

He sees Sherlock crouching before John. The lithe form of the genius at his feet, which are _his feet_ , but also _not his_. Sherlock is staring up at him and he is amazed at how incredibly vulnerable that gesture seems. He is humbled by this unimaginable, mind-blowing, anomaly of a man giving over so much to him, an ordinary, unpolished, broken man. He wants to cry out and laugh and dance and fly - kiss and scream and make love and play with fire. He wants to do it all _right now_ while he can _really_ feel it. He reaches out his hand slowly.

His mind holds several thoughts at once. 

He remembers a wildlife documentary: _hand stretching out towards beast, look away, no direct eye contact, don’t appear as if you’re a threat._

He remembers some odd snippet of physics from his years - The Fletcher’s Paradox: _at every instant of time there is no motion occurring. If everything is motionless at every instant, and time is entirely composed of instants, then motion is impossible. All motion must be an illusion._

He recalls a documentary he’d seen that said you can never really ‘touch’ something. _It is all interaction between gravity fields, electrical forces and magnetic forces. His skin would deform in reaction to the proximity of Sherlock’s skin, a reaction his body would interpret as touch. His body would change in response to Sherlock’s through an exchange of electrons between their atoms. On a microscopic level they both would be transformed simply by touching, possessing some new fraction of each other._

His hand starts to tingle as it gets closer to Sherlock’s face. He feels the heat, the energy, the vibration of the man. He is certain that no other person in the universe feels quite the same. Sherlock vibrates at something more akin to the vibration of the universe itself. He suddenly wants to block out everything but Sherlock and sync himself to that vibration like a tuning fork.

He considers all these things at once in the space of the heartbeats it takes to bridge the gap between his hand and Sherlock’s face. His hand gently cups his companion’s cheek and a thrill of sensation skitters through every nerve in his body, blooming like a flower of fire and electricity in his brain. 

Sherlock leans into the warm and gentle touch a moment, his eyes sliding closed and his own heartbeat racing to catch up with John’s. Then his eyes pop open and focus in on his friend. John is smiling with almost childlike delight.

“I’m not going to let you take regrettable actions as a result of impaired judgement,” Sherlock says taking his wrist and moving his hand back onto his own lap. John stares at his own hand and looks concerned. He looks Sherlock in the eyes intensely. The detective's expression is guarded again.

“Will this drug alter my personality?” John is genuinely concerned. He doesn’t like the idea that his thoughts might not be his own.

“No. Don’t worry, John,” Sherlock responds hastily in a reassuring tone. “It doesn’t change you… It only… _lowers_ inhibitions.” 

John smiles again. “Then this is _me…_ These are the things I would do if I… had less _fear_ … was more _brave._ ”

Sherlock looks startled by this concept. His eyebrows furrow as he considers it.

“No, John. Inhibitions serve a purpose, a purpose that you may not find very relevant in your altered state, but that you may place more value on in your everyday life.”

John frowns again. “I’m a big boy, Sherlock. I get drunk - far too often, probably - and I deal with the consequences of my actions afterwards. I want to… touch you. If you don’t want me to, then that’s one thing… but, it feels… _amazing_ … and I’m not going to feel sorry for that.” He leans forward and smiles mischievously at Sherlock. “I’ll describe how it all feels if you’d like.”

Sherlock stops and stares unblinking for several long moments, his face frozen. He takes the time to study Sherlock, to silently soak in the details of him. 

“I - I don’t want it to happen like _this_ , John,” Sherlock says shuddering back to life. “Not the _first time_ … A choice like this should be made when you are in your natural state of consciousness… _If_ we touch like that-”

“ _When_ we touch like that,” John corrects with a lazy smile. 

A look of shock edged with fear flickers across Sherlock’s face. He has to take a deep breath to continue. “We both will be fully cognizant of what we are choosing, what we are giving up, and what the potential consequences will be.”

John smiles, nodding his head. He now knows the first thing he will do when the drugs are out of his system. It involves heat and breath, lips and _possibly_ teeth and tongues. Just the thought makes him feel a wave of ecstasy radiating out from his center.

He slides off his seat down onto the floor next to Sherlock, laughing at the confused expression on the consulting detective's face. 

“Talk to me some more, Sherlock,” John says looking up at his friend with half lidded eyes. “I want to feel your words.” 

Sherlock smiles. His voice rumbles in that deep baritone. “Of course, John.”


End file.
